Out of the rain’s faint background radiation
come cars that blue-and-red-shift down the street,
sirens, steps of disembodied feet,
isolated bits of conversation.
On an old naval chest pressed into service
as coffee table, two new quarters catch
the scythings of the ceiling fan at such
an angle each one looks as though its surface—
one heads, one tails—is filmed with a thin layer
of water held in place and trembling slightly.
The bubbles in a gin and tonic brightly
surface and expire in the air.
A hollow pyramid set in the glass’s
bottom makes anachronistic sense:
lost continents and present discontents.
A truck, a big one for the hour, passes,
rattling the china and that windowpane.
I see through gin and tonic, between sips,
to where the furrows of my fingertips,
pressed against the glass, fill up with rain.
The Hopkins Review